Although a selfishly bipedal human, a fish is now in the way of my foot.
It feels loose, but fruity, like a carrot toggled in cinnamon.
This headache should be and in fact is sitting cartoonishly
in the middle. Its monkey giggles aren't explained. A sort of secret.
For I am Tarzan, an old junkie churning phlegm with his jaw,
kept awake by its clicks and nervously flourishing a pencil torch
into the dark recesses of the jungle. These days, I wear coveralls,
daisy cluster sideburns and maintaining a diet that breaks my haircut,
really fucks it up, softens but also cramps sentience's sexy garbage bag,
tightens its garter belt in the refrigerator. Diesel tenderizes
my cereal blue. Barf's weak Smurf valence. The squished bug
behind my ear; because our friendship was starting to get sickening.